


There's a Reason for Everything

by Semebay



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crack, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semebay/pseuds/Semebay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other nations were quite sure that America and England had a rather lascivious life when they were out of the public eye and behind closed doors. America's opinion on the matter? "If only."</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Reason for Everything

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL PUBLICATION DATE: February 11, 2011

  
   
   
The nations of the world were sure they knew what went on behind the closed doors of a certain house in England (and the various houses in the States). When two nations were absent (or even when they were standing there, listening), the others took great joy in talking about what went in the (not-so) private lives of America and England.  
   
The stories and rumors that spread were quite scandalous, and the subjects of those stories often received confused and rather disturbed looks from their leaders. Those looks often led to bloodshed, as England would immediately hunt down France (whether he was the source of the story or not), and proceed to recreate one of the many wars that they had taken part in.  
   
America, on the other hand, would look around for the full story. He would find out exactly where he and England had fucked, on what particular table in the dining room, which chair in the living room, which counter in the kitchen, which wall on the way up the stairs, and so on. Seeing America's actions, the nations would get even more excited. More would spread, about America using the stories for inspiration, and it was assumed that the stories were true, whether it was before or after the stories became known to the general public.  
   
As a result of that belief, the stories became more and more daring and bordered on unbelievable. Soon nations were claiming that America tied England to the bed to have his way with him among the chains and whips, or that there was a full dungeon in the basement of his Washington DC home (the one they spent the most time in together), where they would act out their sadomasochistic fantasies, where no one could hear the screams.  
   
Those new rumors would just about push England over the edge, and for a while there was concern about blood pressure and possible therapy for the old nation. There was also concern that France and England would actually break out into war, but the most that happened was France would have to get treated by one of the (always) on-duty nurses for a broken nose or something similar.   
   
The reality of their private life (it was private, damn it. There were just a lot of people that couldn't stop talking about the maybes) was that it was far from what everyone thought, and did not include an excess of sexual situations that bordered on both safe and impossible. If anything, there was a major lack of sex, and America's insistence on finding out exactly what those rumors entailed was mainly his way to try and combat the fact that England was almost never willing to put out.   
   
Hell, after all the grief, America was quite sure that England was a virgin, or some shit like that. It was quite disconcerting to open the door, ready to get down and dirty, only to find out that the object of his desire was talking to the wall again. Or completely shitfaced to the point of no return (and no sex, of course).  
   
It wasn't as thought England was oblivious to the whole thing. He obviously had needs as well, and claimed that he wanted to do it with America. England had told America what he had wanted to do to him once; it had been pretty awesome. With England's lips moving close to his ear, and those weird English words rolling off his tongue like silk on skin, telling America how he wanted to drive him into the bed, tie him up, fuck him, never let go...  
   
Well, they had both been pretty ready for that. “Aroused” was certainly an understatement, considering how far they had gotten along. They had both worked on peeling off each other's clothes, England whispering in America's ear while America sucked on his throat, and felt every word against his lips.  
   
They had been so close.  
   
And then England had started talking to the faeries.  
   
America couldn't count how many times it had happened, though that particular instance had been the farthest they'd ever gotten. He couldn't begin to fathom how many times he had had England crawling in bed with him, or climbing on top of him on the couch, or that one time with the table. The problem was, every time America finally thought that he was going to score, those fucking faeries got in the way.  
   
Considering they were imaginary creatures, faeries were incredible cockblocks. Every single time America thought he was finally going to get some, England started talking about how stressed the things were, or how some situation had come up and he had to go work on it. Then (if they were in England) he would run down to his basement and lock the door behind him while exclaiming something about the books. If they were anywhere outside England, he would usually just lock himself in the bathroom, and America would listen through the door to hear him talking to himself.  
   
Then America would have to let off some steam alone. It was all incredibly depressing, and kinda freaky. Hell, America hadn't talked to himself since the Civil War, and there were reasons for it then. As far as he could tell, England wasn't about to split into two parts, and he wasn't really on the verge of a civil war.  
   
Which was good, but didn't really help America's situation.  
   
America's little problem didn't seem to have any solution, considering England's hallucinations had begun to include some pissed off unicorn and a flying bunny (or a flying mint. America hadn't quite figured out what exactly England thought he was talking about, but he was kind of sure that he couldn't eat it), and the appearance of the two new (imaginary) creatures meant that they couldn't even start the foreplay before they were interrupted. It got to the point that if America and England were in the same room, England would end up leaving in pursuit of his imaginary friends.  
   
America tried to help. He really did. He felt that it was his duty as England's possible cherry-popper (did guys have cherries? Probably not, but America liked the way it sounded) to get England to stop seeing those hallucinations, and get him into bed and crying out in ecstasy.  
   
Of course, America's help usually ended with shouting and America sleeping on the couch (or, if his actions were deemed bad enough, booking a hotel room). Rarely would England do something other than shout at America's “ignorance,” but once in a rare while he would make them both tea in an attempt to sooth America's discontent, the few times that he noticed America was not happy about the intrusion.  
   
However, tea wasn't coffee, and it certainly wasn't sex. And America was going to make sure that England understood the difference.  
   
Even if it killed him.  
   
________________________________________  
   
America was sure that the whole “even if it killed him” bit was exaggerating a little bit. He had really only tacked that on to emphasize the point he was making, in that he wasn't willing to stand for imaginary creatures taking away England.  
   
He hadn't thought that his life would really be at risk, just because he wanted to spend time with England in bed.  
   
But America's start was rather weak, and quite frankly, terrifying. His first attempt at pulling England away from the hallucinations was, undeniably, a failure. He had literally pulled England out of the bathroom at his house, saying that the faeries could wait, and that there were more pressing matters at hand. England had relented a little bit, but then remembered that his imaginary friend were important for some reason or another, and had managed to get himself out of America's arms and had fled.  
   
America wasn't sure if England fleeing had anything to do with how the heater had somehow set the top bedsheets on fire, but he didn't have much time to think about it because he had to hunt down a fire extinguisher.  
   
It was after the fire was extinguished (and England returned to the bathroom) that America had time to wonder how the fire had started, considering the heat was turned off. Of course, his confusion was somewhat hindered by the fact that he had managed to catch his feet in the singed blankets on the floor, and had tripped and slammed his head into the cabinet. Being a nation had its perks (like a fairly decent recovery speed), but it still took two hours before the cut on his head finally stopped bleeding. Then he just hung around the living room, mumbling about the unfairness of life and occasionally glaring at England when the man would give him a little bit of attention (and painkillers).  
   
Sadly, America's plans couldn't continue that day (or the next), and so he had to suffer through sleeping next to England, while knowing that he was no closer to getting any sex than he had been before their relationship began.  
   
   
   
America's plans continued through the month, and his attempts to seduce England failed each time. It was rather shocking how unfortunate he was. While they were unable to spend as much time together as they would like, there was still a lot of time between meetings and work that they kept promised to each other. They read papers together, went out to restaurants with each other, watched movies, and even took walks together. But it was the area that the other nations were sure was amazing and quite kinky that was lacking. And America had to suffer through listening to what could be happening in their relationship every time he ran into France, or Spain, or even Japan (though listening to Hungary was the worst).  
   
He just couldn't figure out why he was so unlucky. It was as though every time he even considered attempting to seduce England, the cards turned and he was doomed to an early death. He had gotten a concussion falling down the stairs to collect England; he had gotten a bloody nose when a stray baseball had broken his front window during a bit of foreplay on the couch; his hotel room in Germany had been haunted, and England was content to tell everybody that America had spent the better part of fourteen hours “curled up in a ball under the bleeding sheets.”  
   
And those were just the things that America could remember. England had far more stories to tell, as America had apparently gained some kind of short-term memory problem, whatever the hell that was.  
   
America was, admittedly, treating the situation as a challenge. However, one thing that was definitely different was that he at least got to rest his head on England's lap while they sprawled out on the couch watching movies. And as long as he didn't consider taking things further, all was good, and he got to make faces at England's British movie-watching quirks (like the faces, and the funny eyebrow-movement, and all the mocking and stuff).  
   
He liked the change, and England's lap was pretty comfortable. The didn't mean that he was giving up, though. He was still determined to beat his misfortunes and finally get England to give up on those faeries, and nothing was going to stop him.  
   
________________________________________  
   
“Okay gentlemen, we have a job to do!”  
   
A tiny fist pounded on the table, and the gathered faeries looked up. A little pink imp floated at the head of the table, eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a thin line.  
   
“But we're girls!” a faerie tittered, wings flapping quickly and scattering glitter on the floor. She looked down at the glitter mournfully; Arthur wouldn't like having to clean it up.  
   
“And I don't know what I am!” Flying Mint Bunny sniffed. He/she/it had long been bothered by the fact that he/she/it did not have a discernible sex, and it always threatened to turn into depressed sobbing when the topic came up.  
   
“Well, “ladies and unknowns” doesn't sound as intimidating as “gentlemen,” so stop complaining.” The imp cleared her throat. “Now, gentlemen. We are here for one reason, and one reason alone.”  
   
“Arthur was cooking earlier and we have to protect him!” a faerie chirped.  
   
“No! Well, yes, but... Okay! Two reasons! We're here for two reasons!”  
   
“Scotland's faeries are threatening us, so we're hiding here!”  
   
“No! Well, ye- damn it.” The imp stopped and glared at the faeries, then sighed and began to count on her fingers. After reaching nine, she gave up and slammed her tiny fists on the table. “This meeting then! We're having this meeting to discuss the threat of the one named “America!””  
   
“I thought we were talking about faerie-sprite relatio-”  
   
“Later! But right now, we're talking about the threat!” The imp waited for the next faerie to speak, but then apparently recalled the rest of the conversation. She raised a hand to silence one faerie before she could speak, and instead continued. “We can't let him seduce and manipulate England! We're running out of ideas, and he won't go away! We have to make it clear to him that England will not be slept with, and that his attempts at seduction will fail each and every time!”  
   
“Why are we doing this again?” Flying Mint Bunny asked, tilting his/her/its head curiously.  
   
The imp narrowed her eyes even more and glared. “Because. We. Can.”  
   
Flying Mint Bunny shivered, and the imp looked around. Her eyes seemed to sparkle, and her thin lips twisted up into a grin.  
   
“And I think I know how to get his head out of England's pants, once and for all!”  
   
________________________________________  
   
America stared at the ceiling with contempt. After another failed attempt at seduction (and a rather violent hit to the groin with a folding chair he hadn't known England owned), America was left alone on the couch while England went to get takeout for dinner.  
   
Of course, America didn't simply lay there and hate the ceiling. He did other things, too. He wondered where the hell England had gotten the chair. He also wondered if he would be able to function, if his seduction of England ended up working. Once he had finished blaming the ceiling and other inanimate objects, he tried to think again about how he was supposed to seduce England. He had tried whipped cream once, and that had gone over well until the bedframe had collapsed. He had also tried chocolate sauce, but then a pillow had burst and feathers had gotten stuck on everything, resulting in an awkward shower.  
   
When the front door slammed and America heard footsteps, he was seriously considering a combination of whipped cream and chocolate sauce. He tilted his head back to look over the arm of the couch, and waved a hand when England walked in.  
   
“'Sup?” America asked, and he failed to notice the dark look that England was giving him.  
   
“What exactly have you been doing these last few months?” England demanded.  
   
America was, understandably, confused. He was pretty sure he hadn't been doing anything apart from seducing England, and really, he wasn't about to say that he had been practicing the fine art of seduction. That would be uncool and lame, and things were better left unsaid in terms of that.  
   
“Please don't tell me you're jealous of the time I spend with the faeries,” England sighed, and he sat down on the arm of the couch. America stared blankly, and didn't even attempt to interrupt when England continued. “Frankly, I'm surprised. I know you don't believe in them (stupid arse), but they have genuine problems that have to be tended to. I'm sorry I can't spend more time with you, but they're like my children; I can't just ignore them for... other things.”  
   
America stared at England and pouted. He wasn't sure why England was acting all weird and apologizey, but it was... weird. Of course, he wasn't able to keep his mind on that fact when he noticed what England's hand was doing.  
   
America stared at England's hand while it gently rubbed against England's thigh. England didn't seem to notice that he was probably kinda moving his hand closer and closer to his groin. It was probably some nervous thing. However, that didn't mean that America didn't notice, and appreciate England's movements. England was sporting a light blush, and whether it was from him (unknowingly) touching himself or apologizing to America...  
   
Well, America didn't really care.  
   
America moved his own hand up to catch England's hand, and he slowly shifted his position so that he was sitting up beside England. England didn't seem at all surprised by the change in position, and let America run his fingers up and down his thigh, closer to his groin.  
   
“They've gone for the day,” England muttered, and America looked at him in surprise.  
   
America hesitated before sweeping England off his feet. He had to be sure that he wouldn't be the victim of some football or something. Once he was sure that nothing stood between him, England and the bedroom, he picked England up and carried him up the stairs.  
   
America only had to get past the foreplay, and he'd be home free. He didn't think much of it while England latched onto his neck and sucked, biting and licking him as though he were a delectable treat (and he was, let no one deny or forget that fact). England had wrapped his legs around America's hips and pushed himself up, managing to successfully block America's vision while he tried to devour him.  
   
Not that it bothered America. He had been through the motions of walking up and down the stairs and into the bedroom so often that he could do it with his eyes closed. Which he was kinda doing. He just had to make sure that England didn't hit the door frame or the wall and he would be home free.  
   
And he was. Home free. And it felt fucking awesome. America wasted no time in shedding his clothes, while England played the naïve virgin and refused to undress. America could totally work with that, though. He quite liked how England hesitated. It was kinkier, or something like that. And it would be a hell of a lot more fulfilling when he finally managed to slip those pants down and dive in.  
   
America understood the rewards to be gained from such a position. He also knew that he wasn't yet out of the woods. Foreplay had always been the last step before pain and humiliation, and to be completely honest, he wasn't willing to let that happen again. That meant that the foreplay couldn't last long, lest he find himself castrated by a garden trowel or something.  
   
England moaned softly when America slipped his fingers in between his pants and his skin, and then gasped when America changed direction and pushed England's shirt off. America was slightly surprised by the fact that England was being so quiet, but he had only thought that England was vocal (partly because the rumors always said that the neighbors heard them having rough sex all the time), so whatever.  
   
America's finger's moved back down to England's pants, but he paused when England's arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer.  
   
“Do you know which country is the most haunted?” England asked.  
   
America stopped and stared at him, confused. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. England waited for a response, and America shook his head.  
   
“Shut up. We're in the middle of something, remember?” America covered England's mouth with his own and pushed down to slip his pants off, but England turned his head away.  
   
“It's an honest question, America,” England breathed, then his breath caught when pushed his pants down and away. America was about to move down with the intent of sucking him, or playing with him, but England quickly grabbed the back of his neck and held him close.  
   
“England?”  
   
“Which country do you think is the most haunted?” England asked. America frowned and moved his hands down. If England was going to be weird, America wasn't going to waste any time.  
   
“Totally not the time to be talking about that,” America said, but when he reached down to take England's cock in hand, he stopped. America stared at England in confusion, then looked down the see what the hell was going on. “What the FUCK?” America demanded, and he pushed himself up into a seated position.  
   
It was England's turn to be confused. He looked up at America and then over at America's hand. “What's wrong?”  
   
“You're-you-I-You!” America opened and closed his mouth multiple times, then blinked and pointed. “You're like a fucking Ken doll or something!”  
   
England narrowed his eyes. “Ken doll? What the bleeding hell is that?!”  
   
“You don't have a penis!” America cried, and England looked down at his groin. “Or an ass!”  
   
America continued on, about England's lack of “junk” and other parts, but England only uttered a small “oops.”  
   
“I can't believe we forgot about that,” England muttered. America's eyes locked on him, and England realized that America was still right there and listening (even through his shock).  
   
“What's going on?!” America demanded, trying to force his voice out of the bewildered tone it had assumed, and into something that was slightly more masculine and in-charge. Sadly he failed, and his voice took on the sound of a squeaky toy.  
   
“It's nothing,” England said quickly, but America wasn't about to be distracted.  
   
“I think the lack of... stuff is a big fucking deal!” America protested, but England silenced him with a finger to his lips.  
   
“You need to calm down,” England said. “Shut your eyes, take a breath, and calm down. You were hit in the head the other day, there might be something wrong.”  
   
“But you don't have a-”  
   
“You just proved my point. You're acting foolish. Now shut your eyes, and take a deep breath.”  
   
America hesitated before he shut his eyes, and he clenched his fist. He hadn't felt the damn thing either. Wasn't that enough proof that something was seriously wrong? It couldn't just be a concussion, or something.  
   
America started when England cupped America's chin in his hands (which were really cold, surprisingly). He could feel England breathing on him, his breath cooling America's neck.  
   
“Remember what I asked? About the most haunted country?”  
   
America nodded, and England massaged his neck.  
   
“Some people would say that the UK as a whole is the most haunted.”  
   
“I don't really wanna talk abo-”  
   
“Shh.” England's fingers moved lower, rubbing his arms with soothing circles. “You now, in England alone, there are stories of protective entities. Like the faeries. They can be malicious little buggers. And when they want something out of the way, they make a point to succeed in their efforts.”  
   
America's brows furrowed in confusion while he tried to figure out what England was saying.  
   
“Though, more often than not, they simply want to play. But even their playing can be dangerous. As you've seen. Maybe you should let them have their way, for now. Otherwise, you'll just get more hurt.”  
   
“No way!” America said, and he opened his eyes with the intent to argue.  
   
He shouldn't have opened his eyes.  
   
“America?” England asked, though his voice was low, almost guttural.  
   
England's face was nothing like it was supposed to be. It was like his skin had been torn away to reveal a great demon underneath, with red eyes, melting skin, fangs and a very prominent brow that made him look like he was glaring. His hair was wet, dripping black ink onto the bedsheets, and when Alfred dared to look down at his hands, he saw claws, and bloodied skin that looked like it had been torn away in a fight.  
   
Alfred shook, and gulped loudly. England-that couldn't be England. No way in hell.  
   
Alfred tilted his head back and away when England's hands rose once more to touch his chin, and he found himself staring at the ceiling. He was sure he was hallucinating. After all, England had said something about a concussion, so maybe-  
   
There was a fucking Medusa on the ceiling.  
   
America didn't have the chance to scream; he simply went limp and flopped off the back of the bed, where he hit his head on the floor and passed out.  
   
The room was silent, as England looked up at the ceiling at the spirit of some poor old woman he had summoned. He hadn't noticed any resemblance to Medusa, and figured that the glare was likely because the spirit hadn't noticed one either.  
   
“You can go now,” England said, and his arm promptly fell off and turned into a faerie. It disappeared into the bathroom, and he watched it go. “I didn't mean you.”  
   
The spirit, apparently bored of the happenings, left through the ceiling while “England's” body continued to fall to pieces and split off in random directions. There was a lot of snickering and laughter, as well as cheers of accomplishment. Their boredom was temporarily sated, though they imagined that when it finally reappeared, they would have to find a new victim.  
   
After all, there was no way in hell America would be up for molesting England after that.  
   
________________________________________  
   
When England returned home thirty minutes later, he was surprised to find that America wasn't in the living room where he had left him. A quick glance around the house revealed that America had somehow managed the climb the stairs, shed himself of clothes, and then pass out by the bed. Judging by the large lump on his forehead, he had been on the bed before passing out.  
   
A longer examination of the bedroom told England exactly what he need to know. Residue on the ceiling and a pair of his pants on the floor gave him an idea of what had gone on, and when America briefly woke only to scream and pass out once more, he turned his eyes to the faeries and various other beings that had taken to hiding in his closet.  
   
Needless to say, England was not amused.  
   
“Am I ever going to get any sex around here?!” England demanded. “Every single time I think I'm going to get some, you just have to open a portal to hell or summon some bleeding demon. Do you hate my pleasure that much?!”  
   
“We're just bored,” one faerie chirped, and England idly wondered if he could be tried for murdering the cute little buggers. “It's okay! Maybe someday he'll get better!”  
   
““Someday?”” England repeated, and the faerie nodded. “Please don't tell me you summoned Linda.” At the excited tittering, England dropped his shopping bag and groaned. “Why on earth... No. Just... Don't answer that. Please.”  
   
“Okay!” Flying Mint Bunny said.  
   
England ignored him/her/it. He decided that he was better off wandering back down stairs and collapsing on the couch, while he considered what forced-abstinence could do for him for the next three years.  
   
   
  



End file.
